Inclinations
by Scriptor Bellum
Summary: "And I'd choose you; in a hundred lifetimes, in a hundred worlds, in any version of reality, I'd find you and I'd choose you." A look at what Warren and Cadence are like in a different universe. X-Men Apocalypse based! Angel/OC, Warren/OC


**So I've been getting a little more into the Apocalypse version of Warren lately! I fought this version for a long time simply because my favorite will always be X3's Warren, but... honestly? Apocalypse Warren is VERY nice!  
**

**Since he's so different from X3 Warren, I started thinking about what Cadence might be like in this universe. Warren in Apocalypse is very similar to what my canon Cadence is like, so I'd imagine Apocalypse Cadence would be similar to X3 Warren.**

**And... this is what came of that, because I started rewriting my original Warren and Cadence fic, I wanted to explore what they might be like in this universe****. XD**

**TRIGGERS include: strong language, non-explicit sexual themes (no sex actually happens, but there's discussion, it's just not explicit), alcohol, graphic injury, and disturbing imagery.**

**Please enjoy and leave feedback if you'd like! Reviews are my food source! 3**

* * *

_I've been watching you silently  
blindfold, calming you violently  
feels like you've fallen and there's  
no one out there  
no one out there  
sleepwalk, wandering aimlessly  
hands tied, keeping you perfectly safe  
no searching nor questioning  
follow me...  
an army of angels will take you away  
an army of angels prepare to invade  
don't be afraid  
your life starts today.  
_

―Kerli, Army of Angels

* * *

"_Verpiss dich!_ I'm not in the mood."

How a young woman like Cadence James, someone who keeps to herself and doesn't like crowds, ended up in East Berlin, wandering around after watching a mutant cage fight, is beyond her entirely.

Why she's here specifically seeking out one of the fight's participants to the point where she followed him is something she has even less explanation for.

During the battle, she stood there not knowing who to focus on. The blue teleporter who had been thrown into the ring clearly not knowing what he was doing, or the angelic champion who had been ready after doing this many times. Somehow, over the roar of everyone else jostling her, she had heard the blonde pleading with the other who was only dodging. _"Fight! Or they'll kill us both!"_

It wasn't right, and it never would be. Her own telekinetic powers are only marginally developed, leaving her with imperfect control over them, but she tried vainly to manipulate things inside the cage to try to keep either of them from getting too hurt.

Some effort well spent that was, because the so-called champion she has eyes on now is broken beyond repair.

The sound of feathers sizzling as they hit the side of the cage and the sight of his left wing smoking with electrical burns is something that will haunt her until the day she dies.

She tilts her head up at him. That wing is drooping down, clearly not working ― the bottle of booze in his hand seemingly more than half empty in an attempt to drown out the pain. He looks so full of rage; this whole scene is just sad. He didn't really do anything wrong, and now he's been crippled. "Hey, listen," she calls, shifting from one foot to the other several times, "I just… I just wanna help."

"Help, huh? _Help?_" At this moment, he jumps down. His right wing flaps enough that it's not a hard landing, though it doesn't look comfortable. He's definitely off balance with only one wing and lists to the side as he comes down. (Or maybe he's just drunk. She's putting her bets on the wing, though.)

He stands there bare-chested, boots digging into the floor, eyes boring into her. If looks could kill, she would be dead. "What makes you think you can help me? _D__ummes M__ä__dchen__._ No one can help me." He takes another swig from the bottle, then points at her with the hand holding it. "Like I said, piss off."

A few singed feathers float to the ground, and Cadence winces. _Ouch._ "But that's part of your body that just got burned all to hell. I mean, doesn't that… hurt?" She gets no reply, but she lifts up the bucket she's carrying anyway. "Ice water."

The look she gets from the man is the same one she might get if she told him she just suggested he let her pour blood over his wing. "What?"

"Ice water," she repeats. Taking the chance while he's bewildered, she takes a step forward. She's not afraid. After all, what's he going to do? Fan her to death? He can't fight right now. "It won't fix your wing, but… if you let me put it on the burns, it might make them feel a little better. Cold water is what you're supposed to do for burns immediately. You lost a little time, but it might still help. You don't wanna be suffering for the rest of the night, do you?"

He stares at her for a long moment, then gestures toward a crate in the corner. Taking one more chug from his bottle, he sits down on it. "I've been suffering my whole life. But whatever. Do what you want. I guess you can't make it any worse."

A small smile settles on her face. _That was easier than I thought._ Flicking her wrist to levitate the bucket instead of carry it in her hands, she heads over toward him. Unfortunately, she won't know exactly how much he was burned until she looks at his back. Maybe he's lucky and it just got the one wing rather than any part of the other wing or any of his skin.

It's not like she could take him to a hospital. Even if she could, she's sure he wouldn't go.

His head cocks to one side while he watches her come over. "You a mutant too, then?"

"Yeah, telekinetic. And a little telepathy. It's not much… I can't read minds or anything like some others. I just get vague feelings from people." She sets the bucket down, and uses her powers to pull over another crate so she can sit behind him. With that, she takes the cloth out of the bucket so she can start on her task. She bites her lip when she sees the damage on his back; it's _bad._ There are bits of feathers sporadically burned along his right wing in addition to most of his left wing being as good as ash. Between his wings are raised, red areas in the cage's grate pattern that have begun to blister. Just looking at it makes he skin twinge in sympathy. "Oh, God…"

He scoffs and she hears him drink again. "That's useful. So if someone hates you, all you get is the feeling, and you don't get to know what horrible, shitty, clever things they're thinking about you, or _why_ they hate you. On the other hand, you can probably make them hit themselves. You would have made a killing in the cage. Might have even given me a run for my money." When she touches the icy cloth to the base of his wing, he shudders out of pure shock. "Hahhhh… well. Maybe not. You definitely could now, though. How about it? You want to beat me up, _Mauerbl__ü__mchen?_"

She lets silence fill the space between them for a moment as she works. The water is so cold it's making her hands shake a little. Hopefully, that means it feels good to his poor charred appendage and the skin around it. Although she could sense his emotions right away and doesn't have to think hard to interpret the signals she gets, she doesn't want to make this worse.

Finally, she speaks up. "You're so _angry._"

He throws a sneer over his shoulder at her, jerking the part of his wing she's working on closer to him. If the way it changes to a grimace of agony is any indication, being so petty actually hurt. "What ― what the fuck d'you even know? You get a little feeling, 'nd suddenly you know everything about me? You don't know _anything_ about me!" His bottle must be empty or near now, because he smashes it on the floor.

"I don't need telepathy to know that you're an angry person. It's all over your face." She scoots closer, and that his wing stretches slightly toward her belies his sour attitude. Her hand is markedly gentler as she resumes tracing the soaked rag over his feathers. "And I don't think I know everything about you. I don't even know your name, unless **Angel** isn't just for the show. You don't seem like the type who'd let anyone know… anything."

It's his turn to let things be quiet for a minute. Then he grumbles, "Warren."

"― Warren?"

"My name. It's Warren. Warren Worthington… _The Third._" He snorts, and lets his head fall into his hands. "Some great legacy I turned out to be. My old man's rolling in his grave somewhere."

She runs her now frigid fingers over the part of his wing closest to his back, looking for loose feathers. When she finds one, she carefully plucks it out and starts a pile on the ground. "Sorry. That one was coming out anyway. Figured I might as well." She does the same thing and finds another one, then repeats the process. "My name's Cadence James. The first, one, and only," she quips. "And, uh, some people call me Cady."

"Cadence." He seems to be rolling that around in his mouth, trying it out, like he doesn't know what to think of it. "Isn't that kind of an old-fashioned name? Never met a _Cadence_ before."

She shrugs. "My parents were kind of old-fashioned."

"It's… different, though. Sounds… nice."

"Well, thanks."

This time, the silence is a little less tense, though not by much. Every time she finds a feather that's coming out and removes it, Warren gives a little grunt. More than anything else, she just feels sorry for him. How long was he in underground Berlin being forced to fight in that cage? By the tally marks on the wooden floor inside the cage, it looked like he defeated ten other mutants just tonight. How many more before that? Has he been fighting only for tonight, or has it been days, weeks, months? Does he have a family somewhere? Isn't anyone looking for him? How did this even happen?

Now he's basically lost all ability to fly. As someone who's also had to learn to live with her powers, as much as these things make mutants outcasts, having them stripped away would feel like losing a limb. Doubly so in Warren's case, given that he's _literally_ a lost a limb by having his wing damaged.

She'll be surprised if this doesn't affect his sense of identity in any way. He's been existing like this for so long, possibly his whole life, that to have it suddenly gone must be jarring.

When she dips the cloth back into the water and sets it now on the burns between his shoulder blades, he hisses. His shoulders hunch and it looks like he's trying to bury his face further into his hands. "Fuck! I _am_ angry! I'm pissed! I've always been pissed! Goddamn humans making us fight, _for fun,_ and it doesn't matter if we get hurt, huh?!" His other wing flaps furiously in an obvious effort to convey his boiling ire. He snaps his head up, the muscles in his arms tightening, his boots crunching the broken glass of his bottle. "Look at me! Look at me, I'm ― I know I'm a dick, but what did I ever do to deserve_ this?!_ I'm broken and **worthless** and nobody gives a shit!"

Cadence pulls the cloth back, splashing it into the bucket. She knows where he's coming from. Even someone like her, whose mutation isn't physically apparent, has been victim to the cruelty of not only humans, but other mutants. Disappointing as it is, they can't always trust even those like them. It does mean, however, that things aren't so clear-cut. There are cruel mutants, and there are kind humans. Of course, it doesn't feel like it right now, with the torture he's been put through.

She gets to her feet and slowly comes around the side of the crate to be face-to-face with him. "Hey. _I_ give a shit." Her voice is soft when she says that, as is her touch when she puts her hand on his arm. "And you're not worthless. You're _hurt._ I know you're not happy right now, and I wouldn't be either in your position, but no matter what you can or can't do, you're still worth something." He doesn't relax under her touch. Instead, he stiffens even more, like he expects to be attacked.

That makes her frown. That means he associates the simple act of being touched, something that's inherently neither good nor bad, with pain. It paints a picture of a heartbreaking pattern which leads her to believe that people have taught him that no kinds of affectionate, comforting touches exist; that the only touches he will ever receive will be traumatic.

That's not fair.

_You can't even trust someone who's being nice to you. How many knives do you have in your back?_

"You're allowed to be angry," she whispers. "You have to feel it so you can get past it. If you don't move past it, if you're angry all the time… you'll be tired. Paranoid. You'll never feel better. You have to find some way to let it go after you've felt it." She flattens her palm against his wrist, feeling the hummingbird pulse in his veins. "There are times when anger serves you. But you can't let it take you over and make you hard."

He's still holding himself tensely, as if he's anticipating that she's going to strike him at any moment. Like he thinks this is just a trick. "Being hard is the only way you'll survive. If you're not hard, then people can just do whatever they want to you and you can't do anything. Anger _always_ serves you."

She moves her hand gradually, slipping her fingers down into his. "No, not always. If you're mad at someone who's only trying to help you, who likes you, who didn't do anything wrong, you're going to hurt them. Hurt enough people, and nobody's going to want to help you even when you need it, even when you want it. You might turn around and not be so angry one day, but the damage is going to be done."

"What are you, a fortune cookie?" Those honey-brown eyes fix her with something so intense it's as if he's looking through her to everyone who's ever hurt him. "It doesn't matter anyway. I've always been pissed, I'm always going to be pissed, and that's the only way I know how to live. Maybe I want to be different, maybe I didn't want this to be my life. But it is. You showing up and putting cold water on my burns and talking like you know what's best for me isn't going to change that."

"Fair enough," she replies. Her fingers twine with his, giving a reassuring squeeze that she isn't sure will help. "Just know that you're worth something even if your wings are broken. Even if you can't fight anymore. Even a soldier is still a _person._ You're a person, and that's worth a hell of a lot more than anything else you are or can do."

Surprisingly, he returns the squeeze. Even more surprisingly, he raises her hand up to his face, and presses a kiss to the back of her fingers. It looks like he's tired, like all his anger has burned itself out and is just smoldering inside him. For all that talk about always being pissed, it seems to have exhausted him. "You're an odd one, you are. Who am I to you? Why waste your kindness on some irascible stranger instead of someone who might actually listen?"

"Because, regardless of whether or not you believe me, it's something you deserve to hear." That he doesn't bring his hand back down immediately gives her the opportunity to lightly wrestle her hand out of his grip and gingerly touch his face.

God, he's absolutely beautiful. He's got a bit of a baby-face thing going on ― rounded curves with the smallest hint of tanned glow, framed by a halo of golden curls. Though she's not sure how old he is, she _is_ sure that he looks younger than he really is. Even so, when her fingertips trace down, they find a delicately strong jawline paired with lean, tight neck muscles. From there, his body leads into a firm chest and sculpted stomach that couldn't be more perfect if he tried.

Compared to this man, Cadence feels plain with her snow-pale skin, sharp cheekbones, and pin-straight black hair. She looks ordinary, and he looks like… an angel. She's the kind of person people wouldn't think twice about walking by on the street, meanwhile Warren looks like he stepped out of some gallery of Greek statues. The only remarkable thing about her is perhaps her smile… and her personality, if he's to be believed.

The way he said that is echoing inside her, making her want to do _more_ for him. He deserves better than to exist with so much wrath and cynicism inside him.

"Your lips look soft," is what she chooses to say. Overcome with his beauty, her own compassion, and the sheer surrealism of the situation, she can't think of anything more articulate.

Those lips twist into something best described as a melancholy smirk. He's desperate for anything to dull his current pain, and maybe now that his buzz has set in, that _anything_ is a pretty woman who sought him out with the intention of helping. That qualifies as helping, right? So he circles his other arm around her waist, curling his fingers around the wrist of the hand still on his face, pulling her in to him.

She has to lean down, drawn between his legs as he hooks one of them around hers. They're so close now that the tips of their noses are touching. "If you like how they look," he murmurs, "you should probably feel them, too. Preferably with yours."

She can count the number of times she's kissed someone in her life on one hand. His flirting seems to come out of nowhere, and that look he's giving her with his eyes half-lidded makes her wonder how many times he's done this. "… Should I?" Her hand reaches down to steady herself, ending up resting on his thigh. Numbing his pain with sex seems like a bad idea somehow. Then again, there's nothing that says she can't kiss him without it turning into sex.

"You should," he breathes, and his breath is warm against her skin. "You definitely… should."

That appears to be all the persuasion she needs. She pushes forward and sets her lips against his with a soft hum. What she tastes isn't all that surprising: vodka he's been drinking for the past hour or so, salt that crept in from his sweat, a little iron from dried blood thanks to the fights earlier. His fingers tighten around hers, and she can feel the vibrations of a throaty moan leaving him.

The fingers of his other hand dance up her back, slipping under her shirt. When his fingertips press in against her spine, she responds to him with breathless, "_Ah__―__!_" of her own. She comes up for breath and lets her fingers curl atop his thigh.

They just stare at each other for a few seconds, then Warren licks his lips. "We're… not going to… are we?"

Slowly, she straightens up, keeping her gaze locked with his. "Not… right now. Maybe later, when you feel better."

Almost as if she's just insulted him, his good wing flaps in a manner that read as indignant. "I'm fine! Besides, you're… you don't live here, do you? If you're leaving, there is no 'later'. You get my hopes up and I might actually fucking cry, and if you see me cry, I'm gonna hate you forever."

"Warren." Her hand lets go of his before she rests it palm-down on his cheek. What she's going to say is going to sound totally insane, but she feels like it needs to be said. He has options and he needs to know that. "You ran away from that fighting ring, and even if you didn't, you can't really fight anymore anyway."

He gives her a glare that's very similar to the one he gave her when she first walked in here.

"Tell me I'm wrong," she challenges him, and the huff she gets is all the answer she needs to continue. "This could be a fresh start for you. You can get out of East Berlin ― get out of Germany altogether! I live in America, and you could… come with me if you wanted. Not _with_ me, just… I could take you on the plane, get you settled somewhere, so you could… maybe live how you want to. Instead of staying here and possibly being found."

She strokes her hand down his face and then moves, heading where she was so she can keep soothing his burns. "You don't _have_ to. It's just… you could have a new life. Something better than fighting to stay alive or being killed for running."

The silence tells her that he's considering her words. Surely the last thing he wants is for the people who run that ring to find where he went. They would drag him back and slaughter him as an example to any of the other mutants there who get the idea of running away in their heads. Even if he never fights again, the idea of his last moments being filled with fear, on his knees, begging not to be murdered… that's worse than dying in the first place.

Cadence reaches to take his wing into her lap, running the cloth over it. The rest of her work is done without another word, applying the ice water to every burn she can find, carefully pulling out loose feathers, as he sits there allowing her to do it.

What is he going to say? Does he really want to stay here and risk being killed? Or is he simply too stubborn and afraid to immediately agree to this? It would mean going somewhere unfamiliar, with someone he barely knows, and starting a life with only the vague promise that it will be 'better'.

It sounds scary to _her,_ and she's already done it once.

When she finishes, she gets to her feet, leaving the bucket near the crate Warren is sitting on in case he needs more relief later. Though it would be a bad idea for her to stay all night, she wants to make sure he's taken care of. After she goes, he's probably just going to continue getting drunk.

She doubles back and tilts his chin up so he'll look at her. He does, but his eyes are enough to let her know that his mind is very busy at the moment, and she doesn't have his full attention. "Hey." Leaning down, she kisses him again and pulls him in for a gentle, one-armed hug. "You don't have to decide right now. It's been a long night. You're probably not in any shape to make decisions until you sober up, anyway."

Another kiss, and this time, he gives her a little nudge of a kiss back. Her other hand combs through his silky blonde hair. "And I'll be in town for a couple of days yet. At the Westin Grand Berlin. If you want to come back to the States with me, just come by and tell them to let me know there's someone waiting in the lobby for me. Cadence James."

"I remember your name," he scoffs, speaking against her lips. "I'm a bell-end. I'm not stupid."

"No, you're not. Sorry ― I just wanted to make extra sure."

He nods, understanding why she repeated it. He's partway to hammered, after all, and it'll be a miracle if he remembers her name should he get any drunker. "Thanks for… this. I don't understand why you wanted to do it, but thanks. Guess I owe you."

"You don't owe me anything, Warren." She gives him one more kiss, then steps away toward the door. A few clicks of her heels and she turns back toward him. "And if you do think you owe me, to pay me back… just… think about my offer, okay?"

His good wing flaps, swooping him back up into the rafters where the rest of his alcohol is. "Yeah, I will. If I decide to come, it'll be you who owes me."

A smile settles on her face. "Of course. It's a deal. And if you don't decide to come…" She pulls her coat around herself and shifts a little. "… Just take care of yourself. Okay?"

"Yeah, I'll do my best." With that, he opens another bottle and takes a gulp. "You take care of yourself, too, _Mauerbl__ü__mchen._"

She nods in return, then heads for the exit. "I'll… see you, maybe."

He doesn't bother with responding; she's already out the door by the time he would say anything way. Maybe she will, though. The bottle tips back, and he loses himself in it again.

It's been a long night, and it's not over yet.


End file.
